


A Man With a Hammer

by apostategarbage



Series: Cullen/Male Loyalist Mage Trevelyan [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Technically a sequel/expansion but it does stand alone, check notes for details
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-20 20:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3663741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apostategarbage/pseuds/apostategarbage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Death is always at the tips of his fingers: even as he tries to relax his hand against Cullen's leg, it feels more like he's loosing an arrow from a bow string rather than simply unballing a fist."</p><p>(Cullen and the Inquisitor continue their ill-advised relationship, Starkhaven invades Kirkwall, it won't stop raining in Crestwood and the Western Approach is colder than it looks)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of expansion/sequel for Practical Astronomy. The ending was super blunt, and people didn't seem happy with it (and I kind of wasn't either, upon reflection), and I was just going to write a straight sequel, but I got really interested in their relationship and writing a Proper Actual Plot, and I sort of just really wanted to expand on the bones I'd laid down in the first fic once I got a better handle on what I wanted to do with Trevelyan.
> 
> Also I've said 4 chapters, it could go to 5, I'm still polishing the last part and i'm not quite sure where to break the chapters.
> 
> So this picks up after Cullen and Trevelyan are (sort of) established, but before any Big Decisions are made Re: Lyrium.

The dream is always the same. Fire pouring and pouring from his hands – when he tries to stop it, it pours from his mouth, his eyes. It doesn’t burn him because it is _his_ fire, no more foreign to him than one of his own limbs. The fire doesn’t burn him, but it burns everything else. He is always in the ballroom of the main estate, at a party, when it starts. Minutes, and he’s watching the flesh fall from his parents’ bones, his sisters screaming (Rosaline throws up her shield, and it melts like butter; Evelyn tries to shield her son and they die together,) countless friends and relatives here and gone in a whirl of flame. The estate vanishes, and fire turns to lightening. The sky cracks and strikes down the circle tower, levels the chantry, splits the earth at his feet.

Ice swallows him before he can fall, leaves him suspended in Ostwick’s ruin. A woman approaches, out of focus, with a melodic voice and something about her that is not-right. 

_Wouldn’t it be wonderful if this could all go away?_ she asks. _I could take it, if you’d like? It would hardly cost a thing._

*

Trevelyan wakes up, sweating, in his own bed. His heart slams against his ribcage, and he knows it’s all in his head, but he swears his hands are warm and that he smells burning. 

He pulls on a shirt and a loose pair of trousers, and runs to Cullen’s quarters as quickly as his bare feet will carry him. 

Cullen is not at his desk when Trevelyan arrives (shamefully out of breath, and still shaking), so he climbs the ladder (thankful of the dim green glow from the Mark) and finds Cullen sleeping, or in bed, at least.

 

“Cullen,” he tries, hanging tentatively at the edge of the loft. Then to the bed, he shakes Cullen’s shoulder. “Cullen, are you awake?” 

“No,” he replies.

“It’s important.” And then Cullen is up like a shot, bright eyed and clamouring for his sword and his boots. Trevelyan grabs his wrists, assures him it’s just a question. A stupid one, but still. Important.

“If I needed you to perform a silence, could you?” asks Trevelyan. Even in the dim light, Trevelyan sees Cullen’s brow crinkle. 

“I… I don’t think so,” he says. 

Trevelyan nods. “But even without...Um, hypothetically, if a mage – just one, but a powerful one – got out of control, you’d be able to deal with it, wouldn’t you?”

Cullen gives him a look – it is Trevelyan’s look, actually. Concern and mild disbelief – to be deployed when Cullen is insisting that the withdrawal isn’t bothering him. Cullen does not wield it as well as Trevelyan does, and he cracks, with a sigh, when Trevelyan sits heavily on the edge of the bed. 

“You needn’t worry. We have plenty of Templars on hand, and even without the Lyrium, my combat training is... specific.” Weight shifts on the mattress, then Cullen is beside him, a warm, tentative hand on his shoulder. “And… If this hypothetical mage were just an apostate, or an apprentice we might have to worry. But I’m assuming they’ve passed their harrowing – in this scenario – that they might even be an enchanter of significant rank. Surely, surely their rank would be proof enough of their abilities and their control. They’d be nothing the worry about, almost certainly.”

Trevelyan smiles, tightly. He appreciates that Cullen tries but he clearly does not understand how far a good last name and a loyalist affiliation could get you in the Ostwick circle.

“Right. Well. Yes. All hypothetical, anyway. Sorry to disturb you.” Trevelyan takes a deep breath and readies himself to leave. The initial panic has subsided leaving embarrassment in its wake. What kind of self-respecting adult flees to the bed of a casual lover after a _nightmare_ , of all things? “I… A silly dream. Foolish – forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to apologise for. I’ve been to you with my… Issues on more than one occasion.” True – Cullen’s withdrawal often leaves him sore, paranoid, in need of a little care and attention. A back rub, a tumble, some soft words – company. Trevelyan likes to think they understand one another. “You should not hesitate to come to me, if something troubles you.” Cullen’s thumb rubs a circle on Trevelyan’s shoulder. 

As long as he isn’t outside of his comfort zone – and granted _speaking_ is frequently outside of his comfort zone – Cullen is surprisingly good at initiating. Better than he was, anyway. He’s all light flush and soft eyes. He’s clumsy, but he’s never rough – he’s more likely to startle and jerk away the second he thinks he’s doing something wrong – it’s refreshing. Historically, Trevelyan’s dalliances had tended to err on the side of caution; quick and dirty as they have to be in the Circle tower. Even when he got his own quarters (an office, and a comparatively plush cell to sleep in) there was only so much time that could be taken. On his visits back to the estate he could afford a little more time and care (the doors actually locked at home) but even then it meant shaking off one of Knight-Captain Rosaline’s underlings, or even the woman herself. Rosaline had to be veritably ordered by their mother to tag along to parties and then she’d stick to Trevelyan like a rash.   
She’d claim she was just “doing her sacred duty” but it was so _obvious_ she was using him as an excuse not to speak to anyone else. Rosaline could cleave a man’s head open without batting an eyelid, but a simple request for a dance would leave her as red as a cherry.

It had gotten on Trevelyan’s nerves at one time, but she had done much for him in the Circle. She’d sat up with him after hundreds upon hundreds of nightmares, she’d kept him safe, she’d gone above and beyond the call of duty, both as a Templar and an older sister. He supposed (still supposes) the odd party spent in the corner chatting with her instead of getting his end away wouldn’t kill him. 

Trevelyan prays for little, but when he does, he asks for her safety. Not a word from her since the conclave, no trace of her at Therinfal Redoubt, panicky letters from mother and father and Evelyn every other week to make sure he’s worried as sick as he can be. 

“Does something trouble you now?” Cullen asks. “You’ve been quiet for five minutes – a new record for you, I think.”

“Alert the town crier,” Trevelyan replies. “It’s nothing, I was miles away – thinking about how you’re going to freeze to death with that bloody hole in your roof.” Trevelyan sighs dramatically, and turns to Cullen with a scowl. “I _suppose_ I could stay and keep you warm, if you’re going to twist my arm about it.”

*

They gather about the war table – Trevelyan and his advisers – each day at the crack of dawn, to plan their respective days, hand over post and discuss pressing matters. One of Leliana’s scouts works through the night, sifting through their post, picking out what is pressing and what is junk – then Leliana herself rises an hour early to read through the shortlist, and have letters marked as private checked over by Dagna and the mages for nasty enchantments and poxes and all manner of filth. Trevelyan once asked Leliana if that was necessary and she informed him that they had received a package for him marked ‘Urgent’ – with a perfect forgery of his father’s signature - for it to contain a rotting pig’s heart and a clump of hair.

“Any letters for me? Before we get into the serious stuff,” Trevelyan asks, brightly. He's been waiting for word of Rosaline, of course. And word from father about the last family squabble the Inquisition was forced to interfere with. Plus, Mother's health is poor, and Trevelyan is just waiting to hear she's taken a turn for the worse, or passed. 

Leliana hands him three envelopes.

“One from Bann Trevelyan,”

“Father Bann? Or Sister Bann,”

“Sister Bann. Your nephew too, and one from Prince Sebastian, which we shall need to attend to.”

Trevelyan stuffs the letters from his sister and her son into the pocket of his robe, and examines the third. Enveloped in fine red paper, and fastened in wax with the official seal of Starkhaven.

“That's a little odd,” says Trevelyan. More than a little odd. Outside of a few official Inquisition interactions, he has not spoken to Sebastian in over ten years. They hadn't gotten along particularly well, not even when Sebastian was a bit more _fun_ – he'd never liked mages, always funny with Trevelyan at parties, regardless of how drunk he was. 

“His letter accompanied this official missive,” Josephine says. She gnaws the tip of her quill and scowls down at her tablet, looking thoroughly irritated. “In short… Prince Sebastian has… Occupied Kirkwall,” she grumbles. Trevelyan's jaw drops, Cullen audibly scoffs and Leliana and Josephine exchange disapproving looks.

“Why? What in Andraste's name would prompt him to do that?!” Cullen cries, before Trevelyan can. Oh this is exactly what Thedas needs, isn't it? Another sodding war. Trevelyan wants to kick something. He wants to kick Sebastian. 

“He thinks someone in the city is still harbouring the mage, Anders,” Leliana begins, “The missive goes into more detail, but in short, he wants all of Hawke’s former associates. The city’s militia, lead by Guard Captain Aveline Hendyr, is resisting,” Leliana holds up the official missive, which Cullen promptly snatches from her hand.

“So she damn well should!” He says. Cullen reads the missive aloud, and it is fairly to the point. Anders was not brought to justice, Kirkwall is out of control, Sebastian occupies the city in the name of the Maker himself, and hopes the Inquisition will support him.

Cullen slams the letter on the table once he's done. 

“Sebastian can tart this up all he likes, it's still utterly unreasonable! I worked closely with Aveline and knew her well, she is a fine, fine woman. She opposed Anders’ actions, and assisted Hawke due to their long friendship, a-a-and for the same reasons I did! Meredith had gone mad, she had to be stopped. Aveline single-handedly detoxified Kirkwall’s guard, has been a leading force in the effort to rebuild and I sincerely doubt she would harbour Anders, regardless of her friendship with Hawke. To support Sebastian would be a slap in the face to the people of Kirkwall,” Cullen snarls. 

“I agree with the Commander,” says Josephine, nodding furiously. “We simply cannot support this, Inquisitor. With your own use of tranquillity as a punishment, our apparent bias toward the Templar order, your own fraternity, family and association with Enchanter Vivienne – we’ll be marked as anti-mage, zealots. No better than Knight Commander Meredith, etcetera, etcetera.”

Trevelyan wonders when they'll start to argue about what to do. He is so unmeasurably _crap_ at this delegation stuff, this hard decision making. He'll bite his nails and stare at them for half an hour: Cullen will shout himself red in the face, Josephine will vaguely insult everyone's intelligence, Leliana will scare the shit out of all of them.

“I want to bolster Aveline’s militia,” says Cullen. “Drive Sebastian home. The man gets his arse on a throne for five minute and he’s already playing despot, if we don’t nip this in the bud I give him a month before he’s trying to drag us into another exalted march.” It is... a hyperbolic assessment of the situation. Trevelyan catches Leliana's eye as she raises her brows. 

“Am I detecting a note of bias?” she asks, with a barely concealed snort. 

“I do not particularly like him, as I would not particularly like anyone who took it upon himself to invade a city I called home.” Cullen and Leliana glare at one another, till Josephine clears her throat.

“Personal dislike for Sebastian and ethical issues aside, it would be foolish to so obviously break ties with Starkhaven. I say we write him back, tell him our military resources are limited at this time. We have Crestwood to prepare for, after all, and we’re spread thinly enough as it is.”

Then Leliana does snort, Cullen gives a nasty laugh, and all three of them turn to Trevelyan with looks on their faces that say _Can you believe these two?_

“Here we go,” Trevelyan mutters, under his breath. He looks straight forward, down at the table. If only the Maker had blessed him with a spine.

“You cannot be suggesting we ignore this?” says Leliana, disbelieving. Josephine opens her mouth to argue, but Leliana silences her with a wave of a hand. “If the Inquisition does not intervene, far more damage will be done than need be. I say we support the Prince, and put an end to this before more damage is done. If Aveline sees an army at her gates, she will back down. She is not a fool.”

Then they all look at Trevelyan again, as if he'll know what to do. He chews his lips for a moment, and resists the urge to shrug.

“Perhaps… We should ask Varric?” he tries. “They’re all his friends, after all.”

The suggestion goes down surprisingly well, and Varric is fetched from his bed and brought to the war room, sloppily dressed and bleary eyed. He listens carefully to each advisor (their plans delivered slightly more calmly) and thinks for a moment. 

“As much as I hate to leave Aveline hanging, I think Ruffles might have the right idea here,” Varric says, finally. Cullen and Leliana both ask him if he is serious. Varric nods. Do you know how much money there is in Starkhaven? As much as I’d love to stick it to Choir Boy after the shit he pulled with Hawke, it’s a waste of our resources. Aveline will keep him back just fine on her own, I don’t imagine Sebastian will be pleased but he can’t exactly cut ties because we don’t have the resources to help him invade a city we have no quarrel with.” 

“Except… We do have the resources,” Trevelyan says. Varric shrugs.

“He doesn’t know that.”

“What if he does?”

Leliana lays a reassuring hand on Trevelyan's shoulder. “He won’t, Inquisitor. He’d have to have spies in our ranks, and duplicitous agents do not last long in this organisation.”

Trevelyan nods, and considers his options again. Josephine does make the most sense, he supposes. He doesn't want to go to war with Sebastian, but he doesn't want to go to war with Kirkwall. And Maker, Cullen looks like a kicked puppy and he'll probably be in a huff all day over this. He gives Trevelyan a pleading look, for which Trevelyan can only offer an apologetic shrug.

“Alright. Josephine, we’ll draft the letter this afternoon,” says Trevelyan. 

Josephine grins, Varric sighs, and Cullen stomps from the room like a teenager. Leliana does not look particularly pleased, but she stays put, at least. 

 

*

Trevelyan ends up in Cullen's quarters that evening. He actually, really, genuinely goes with the intention of giving Cullen a piece of his mind for storming out of the meeting, but Cullen's tongue is in his mouth before the words are out of it. 

The sex is gentle, generous, and Trevelyan supposes this is Cullen's version of an apology. Words are often so difficult for him – why say you're sorry for storming off when you can show. 

Trevelyan supposes he owes Cullen an apology too, but then there are hands and lips and thoughts of Kirkwall's occupation are thoroughly dismissed in favour of more pleasant and pressing matters.

 

Cullen doesn't really _do_ afterglow. He says he hates being sticky; Trevelyan suspects he might just have a thing about being naked. Cullen rolls off the bed, shuffles about the room, hands not sure where they’re supposed to sit and what they should cover.

Body shyness such as this is almost a foreign concept to Trevelyan. He remembers when he first got to the circle, being corralled into a huge room with fifty other apprentices, and being expected to change and bathe in front of them. It took him all of a month to stop caring – he'd only been nine. He used to feel awful for the mages that got taken in right in the middle of puberty.

Trevelyan averts his eyes – Cullen hates being watched – and busies himself retrieving the whisky Cullen keeps in his end table. Cullen isn't the only one of them that's shit at apologising, and a little alcohol might help ease the process. How should he word it? 'I'm sorry I didn't violently break ties with the wealthiest state in the Free Marches because you said so' is bound to just come off a bit arsey, isn't it?

There's a cup on the floor by him (probably in need of a wash) and Trevelyan sloppily pours himself a shot, scoots to the foot of the bed, and lies down on his stomach, feet swishing in the air. He conjures a lump of ice and drops it in his cup – it hits the drink with a soft plop, just as Cullen clears his throat.

Trevelyan looks up, finds Cullen coyly perched upon a stool in front of his wash basin.

“I hope no one else sits on that,” he says. Cullen snorts, asks if Trevelyan is helping himself again. Trevelyan tinkles the ice against the corner of the cup, and sips. His top lip tingles a moment before the whisky reaches it, then the cracks on his bottom lip burn as it slips into his mouth. A little sweet, mostly smoky, not wonderful quality but reasonable enough, Trevelyan supposes.

“Would you mind filling this?” asks Cullen. He is wringing his dry wash cloth between his fingers, legs crossed, one elbow resting on his thigh. “My basin.”

Trevelyan mutters “Is that what we’re calling it now,” under his breath, snorting when a look passes over Cullen’s face like he heard the comment, but is consciously choosing to ignore it.

With a casual wave of his hand, the basin is full – hot water, perfect temperature, doesn't even need a staff. 

“Just so you know, Cullen, that's a very tricky bit of magic I've just done,” he says. “A lesser mage would have to conjure snow, or ice and-”

“Then melt it with fire, yes, yes,” Cullen dunks the wash cloth in the water, smiling.

“I have a whole bath in my room, you know?” Trevelyan says. Cullen's wash basin is made of cheap china and decorated with faded, pink flowers. There is crack running along the outside which is not quite deep enough to let the basin leak, and the frame it rests in is rickety and wooden. Maker only knows where he found it, and why he didn't throw it out. “Room enough for two. Three, if you're feeling adventurous.”

Trevelyan smirks and has another sip of whisky. He watches Cullen drag the wash cloth over his face, then to his neck. He rubs his shoulders, leaves his skin damp and catching on the fire light. There's a light mark, that summer-berry red-purple colour, blooming on the thick strap of muscle between his neck and his shoulder. His brow furrows as he presses on it.

“You'd better not have bitten me again,” he says. The wash cloth travels to Cullen's stomach, and he uncrosses his legs, ghosts it over his thighs before he brings it back to the basin. Slosh, slosh, squeeze, drip drop – Trevelyan keeps his eyes locked on the sharp line of Cullen's stomach. He's never had a man who looked like Cullen before. It's only been soft mages and soft nobles. You'd get a wiry one, on occasion or a solid one – but nothing quite like this. 

Cullen sighs, irritated, and Trevelyan suddenly remembers why he came here in the first place.

“You’re not… You’re not still annoyed that I went with Josephine’s idea over yours, are you?”

“Why would I be? You favour Josephine and Leliana’s thinking regularly over mine – and with good reason. I’m a soldier, not a politician.” Cullen’s voice is too measured, too deliberate. 

“This seemed personal to you,” says Trevelyan. 

“It was personal to Varric too. But I suppose Josephine had the best idea, at the end of the day. As much as I’d like to put down this invasion, I’m glad we’re not encouraging it. Let's leave it at that, shall we?” Cullen has the wash cloth back on his thigh, fat drips of water catching in the hair on his legs and thinning before they disappear onto the stool. “I am sorry for leaving the way I did. It was... unbecoming,” he says. Trevelyan nods, says it's fine. “Speaking of unbecoming behaviour, It’s awfully rude to stare, you know?” Cullen chides.

“My cock was in your mouth ten minutes ago,” Trevelyan scoffs. Cullen colours. It's easy to forget he's relatively new to all of this sometimes, others, it's impossible to think of anything else.

“You're so crass,” he mutters.

“One of us has to be, or we'd be performing this whole affair in sign language.” Trevelyan sips again; the whisky is preventing his flush from going down, racing blood being about the only thing that keeps a person warm in Cullen's room. He still hasn't gotten his roof fixed. Trevelyan wants to get sorted (“I can do that, you know, perks of the job, and all.”) but Cullen insists he can't take priority just because of his position or what they're doing. Cullen had looked so uncomfortable with the very idea that Trevelyan hadn't pressed the issue.

Trevelyan thinks it might be a _commoner_ thing – getting all embarrassed about gifts and special privileges – it merely takes the suggestion of a favour to have Cullen complaining about feeling cheap or like he's taking advantage.

“I think I might prefer the sign language.”

“You like it.”

“Only a little,” Cullen says, with a shy smile. He finishes washing up with minimal fuss, and tugs on his hideous nightshirt. He makes a point of throwing Trevelyan’s long abandoned breeches at him, which Trevelyan makes a point of throwing back. He pulls Cullen onto the bed, and kisses him, despite weak protests about already having washed up. 

*

Honestly, The Fallow Mire had a far larger problem with the undead rising. In the Mire the bodies were diseased and miserable, shuffling from the bog, still laden with the sickness that had taken them. Killing them had felt like a purge, Trevelyan's fire a cleansing force – good triumphed, evil was sent back to the depths, bodies released and laid to rest.

But here it is all wrong. Perhaps it is because the undead attacking Crestwood are visibly blighted rather than just diseased, but there is a clear desperation to them. Their minds are too rotted to seek a particular goal, but they still seek _something_ , breaking from putrid shambling to out and out sprints as they try to force their way through the village defences.

Inquisition soldiers come to protect what Trevelyan and his small group can't do on their own, and he feels a pang of guilt leaving these poor, green troops in such a miserable little village. He can not help but think how useful an armful of mages would be. Fire cuts through corpses like hot knives through butter, and all they can offer Crestwood is a couple of Templars and twenty-odd scouts. A spell purge knocks a bit of the fight from the corpses, but it's hardly as efficient as a fireball, and Trevelyan can't help but wonder (as he has wondered almost daily since the choice was made) if he made the right decision in prioritising the Templars. He'd known some of the mages in Redcliffe (he'd taught them, he'd marked their essays and assigned them to mop the floor of his office when he caught them drinking or fumbling around in dark corners), Grand Enchanter Fiona had been a good woman, and like it or not, they were _his_ people. 

In his time at the Circle, Trevelyan had been accused constantly of Chantry apologism, of treachery to mages and being so blinded by the privilege that came with his name, he couldn't see the Circle for what it was. “Templar Pet,” they'd called him, behind his back, complained that his sister cared only about protecting the Loyalists and turned her blind eye to abuses acted upon vocal libertarians and other rebels. A lie, of course, but gossip was half the entertainment in the Circle Tower.

The soldiers now look to Trevelyan for guidance, and he hums and has and looks to the Templars captaining their group for help. He likes to think he's come on since the collapse of the Ostwick circle, but he reminds himself awfully of _himself_ all of a sudden. An apprentice comes to him for help, a mage asks for permission to get out a restricted book or piece of equipment, a lower ranked enchanter asks if they can change the curriculum a little: he stutters, he says he'll run it past the Knight-Captain, see how it goes down.

He wonders (and wishes he hadn't) if he'd be quite so fond of Cullen if he hadn't been a Templar.

Trevelyan is mercifully taken from his thoughts by a soldier asking if he or Vivienne can stay behind to help (“With fire, and that, you know?”) and Vivienne, appears behind him, as if summoned.   
She reminds the soldier (forever bearing the burden of brutal pragmatism) they are here to meet Hawke and the Warden, not play nursemaid, but they shall be back to resolve the situation in a few days. 

So Trevelyan, Vivienne, Varric and Cassandra traipse into the hills, and find Hawke camped under a cliff. They have all met before, briefly, and Trevelyan wonders if he shall ever cease to be awed by the Champion of Kirkwall. Hawke is relentlessly cheerful – she calls like a wild bird at the sight of Varric, and greets him an with unalloyed joy Trevelyan doubts he'd ever manage to show another human being without first noisily ironising his feelings. Hawke is everything the Circle had warned them about (Vivienne watches her as a cat watches a hound) screaming 'Apostate' with every twirl of her staff and 'Heretic' with every word that comes from her mouth. Trevelyan bets she's never deferred to anyone in her life, no less a Templar. 

As they make their way toward her Warden contact, she loudly updates Varric on her love life. Isabela (who sounds like the heroine of one of Cassandra's filthy novels) is the same as ever, and Varric is glad to hear it. Though they fought before Hawke left because Isabela hates it when Hawke goes off Do-Gooding and hates being left with Anders for extended periods of time even more.

At the mention of the name Varric coughs loudly – Cassandra scowls and turns a curious shade of red, and Vivienne's eyebrows travel half way to the back of her scalp. Hawke notices what she's done and (Maker damn her or bless her for it) _laughs_ and informs both Trevelyan and Cassandra they shall never catch him. Hawke quickly changes the subject to her warden contact.

They are to meet Warden Alistair (“Yes _that_ Warden Alistair,”) and Trevelyan realises Hawke has long since taken over leading the party. He squashes down this cloying feeling of inadequacy (oh how he misses the carefree arrogance he had in the Tower) and trudges along behind her, all the while wondering what Cassandra is making of all this. Could she still be furious that Varric snatched the chance to have Hawke lead the Inquisition from her? Trevelyan tries not to think about it, tries not to reduce this to an internal pissing contest, pitting himself against Hawke and focussing on all the areas he might come up short.

She brings them to Alistair, propping her foot on a rock an pointing to his cave with a well timed thunderclap that has Varric grinning. Varric has not smiled so much in months; he calls Hawke a show off and gives her an avuncular shove toward the mouth of the cavern.

Hawke leads them in, and they find Alistair on his feet, sword drawn, shoulders straight and calling a warning. In the dim torchlight, he is massive and handsome, like a fairytale knight or a warden of legend. But when Hawke shouts out for him he grins all crooked and boyish. He seems to knock a foot of height and width from himself, and fifteen years all in the change of his gate. 

Discussions are had and plans are laid to meet back at Skyhold, then travel on to the Western Approach. Hawke and Alistair will leave now, and get a head start on logistics and details with Trevelyan's advisers, while Trevelyan and co agree to stay and see to the situation in Crestwood to its end.


	2. Chapter 2

A discussion with the Mayor informs them they will, apparently, have to clear an _entire_ keep of bandits. Trevelyan would have refused point blank, had the mayor not seemed so cagey about the whole thing. Motivated as much by curiosity as a desire to help, they set out for Caer Bronach and make quick work of the bandits there. 

They head straight for the dam's operating equipment and find the wood rotted through and in need of extensive repair. As they prepare to send word back to Skyhold requesting carpenters and builders, Cassandra points out that the keep would make a fine base of operations for northern Ferelden.

The Inquisition's flag is raised, and Cullen arrives a week later with a battalion of soldiers, merchants and builders. The undead seem to peter off with all of the excitement and movement in the area, and though the townspeople press to know when something will be done, the mayor says nothing and is more interested in enquiries on the keep.

Trevelyan tries to oversee the building and repairs, but finds he isn't very good at it. 

He's approached by one of Cullen's lieutenants (a young woman with a face he remembers, but a name he cannot recall) who is smiling brightly, and doesn't quite seem to know how to speak to him. 

“Um, excuse me, your worship, ser, er... I know you must be really busy n'that, but er...” He is not busy. Trevelyan has, in fact, spent the last few hours sat on a stool, his attention divided equally between the rather strapping young man chopping wood to his left, and a buxom merchant setting up her stall to his right. “We've just gotten the forge all set up, n'that, n' we was wondering if we should get a move on making fittings n' nails n' that for the builders, or if yous want us to concentrate on weapons, or help the builders cart the materials in, or what?” Trevelyan has no idea. She seems to take his silence as contempt. “Just 'cause the forge is ready to go n' that! We're not trying to get out of smithing or nothing, we was just wanting to know exactly what's best for us to be doing.”

“Yes, of course, don't panic! I'm just... I'm thinking, I need a moment to think,” Trevelyan says, evenly.

“Sorry, your worship, didn't mean to rush you or nothing, your worship.”

Trevelyan waves his hand and considers his options. He could try and flirt his way out of this, or pretend he has more pressing matters to attend to. Of course, he could just go and run for Cullen or Cassandra or Vivienne or someone with at least a smidgen of genuine authority. 

“Start making the... The building materials, the fittings and such, that sounds like a fine idea,” he says, after a moments thought. The lieutenant nods, and is just about to leave when Cullen seems to melt out of the stonework, appearing over Trevelyan's shoulder like a spectre.

“Your Worship, we've had another rather a large shipment of iron ingots that's just come in, and I think the smiths would be better served fetching it and fully stocking the forge before starting on the building,” suggests Cullen. It's not what he says, it's the way he says it.

“Do you now,” replies Trevelyan, eyebrows raised. Cullen frowns at him, openly, in front of all of their troops, takes far to long to answer, then does it in rather incredulous a tone.

“Well, if the Inquisitor believes the smiths should start the forge, by all means. He is the last word, after all, I was merely offering advice.” He purses his lips. “I am an advisor, after all.”

“Fine! That's fine, lieutenant, do as the Commander says. In fact, everyone!” Trevelyan raises his voice and snaps his fingers. “Please defer all questions to Commander Cullen. Save us both the embarrassment and don't even bother asking me, since I fear it's now rather obvious I have no idea what I'm doing. Now back to work.”

The lieutenant looks shocked and scampers away. Cullen _rolls his eyes_ and there are frowns, and a general murmur of bewildered displeasure, but the hammers start hammering again, and the wheel barrows get pushing. 

Trevelyan attempts to stomp off to his quarters with the intention of sending for Cullen in a few hours to shout and remind him who is in charge (even though they'll both know Cullen was in the right for interrupting him, really) but he is caught half way up the stairs by a scout. He's an elf, out breath and brandishing a spyglass.

“Ser, ser you must come quickly!”

“Are you deaf, boy?” Trevelyan snaps. “Didn't you hear the tantrum I just threw?”

The scout nods. “Aye ser, but it's not to do with building this, a dragon's just flown over head!”

“You're fucking joking,” says Trevelyan. The scout shakes his head, and then rather bravely grabs Trevelyan's sleeve and drags him out to the bridge that connects Caer Bronach to the dam controls. Trevelyan snatches the spyglass and of course, the scout is right. In the near distance, a High Dragon sails to the ground and lands down at the Black Fens. “Have you any idea of the... breed?” 

“Er... It's purple? I dunno ser, I know fuck all about dragons, just that that one's far too close for comfort and the locals have been having trouble with it for weeks.” 

“Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks,” says Trevelyan. “Fucking bollocks, this is the last shitting thing we need.”

“My thought's exactly ser,” says the scout, nodding. “Shall I send soldiers, ser?”

“No. Get Madame de Fer, Seeker Pentaghast and Messere Tethras, we'll sort it out.”

“Are you sure, your Worship? I'm sure the Commander will happily spare a few—”

“I wiped out a whole nest in the Hinterlands with a party of four, soldiers will only get in the way, boy, trust me.”

“Alright ser, well, Maker's blessings and the best of luck to you!” 

The scout, looking sufficiently impressed, plucks his spyglass from Trevelyan's hand, and rushes to retrieve the requested parties. 

Within the hour, they are armoured, armed and walking down to the Black Fens, which is an hour or so from the keep. The walk is, thankfully, bare of bandits; the last of them having been weeded from the area by Inquisition forces. Vivienne suggests that Cassandra and Varric scout ahead, and they do so without questioning it.

“Darling,” she begins, once the others are out of earshot. “I caught your little display this afternoon, and you've been rather glum since we got here. Is there something bothering you? Or is it just the weather.”

Trevelyan loves Vivienne. Everything she says is under a layer of honey and bullshit, and that is exactly the language he understands. She says “Is there something the matter?” she means, _I know there's something the matter, I'm giving you an out if you don't want to talk about it, but I know and you can't hide it from me and I'll find out eventually._

Trevelyan sighs. “Am I crap?” he asks. “Am I a crap inquisitor? Because I'm starting to suspect that, for various reasons, I might be a crap inquisitor. I'm indecisive, I'm a bit spineless, and I used to think I was charming, but I think I might actually just be _smug_. Am I smug?”

“Nonsense. You're just cautious. You recognise your flaws, and you surround yourself with people who can do the things you can't – that's the mark of a shrewd leader, in my opinion.” 

“That is a very kind way of phrasing what I just said.”

“My dear, if I ever start telling you exactly what you want to hear, I would worry,” she lets slip a little smile. “And if you do come off a little smug sometimes, it hardly matters. You're very good looking, you can get away with that sort of thing. Now come along, I believe we have a dragon to fight.” She picks up her speed, a tiny bounce to her step, and Trevelyan could swear she was _excited_. 

They watch the dragon from the distance for a while, watch it spit lightening from its mouth at an unsuspecting Druffalo and scatter the herd with a sweep of its tail.

“That's a Northern Hunter,” says Cassandra. “Ten recorded sightings, all in the south of Thedas, no one is sure if it's multiple dragons of the same breed, or just the one. She is similar to the Gamoran Stormrider, at any rate.” Varric snorts at her. “As a girl, I liked dragons. You're a Pentaghast who likes dragons, you get an awful lot of books about dragons, I have no special interest in them, I just—”

“Save it, Seeker,” says Varric.

The Northern Hunter takes to the sky, loops a loop and lands perched on the ruined building. Elegantly, she stretches her wings and even at this distance, Trevelyan can hear the rain slapping against her leathery flesh . She is purple, and white, with splits of orange, and a bright, electric blue daubing and flashing at her throat as she summons more lightening. It doesn't quite reach the sky, but it almost does, so she seems to try again. She stretches her neck longer, holds it in her mouth till the patches at her neck (holes, maybe?) are glowing white before releasing. Still, she does not reach the clouds, and her tail swats with irritation.

“What a shame,” Trevelyan says. 

“Hmm?” from Vivienne.

“That we're going to kill her. What a shame.”

“She might kill us first,” Varric says. Cassandra shakes her head.

“This one is young. As young as High Dragons get, any way. She's... Playing. Her first rampage, if I had to take a guess,” Cassandra hums. “Certainly a shame. If you don't consider dragons pests.”

Trevelyan sighs. “Let's go.”

It takes her a while to spot them, but the Northern Hunter does. She spits lightening, takes off and they scatter.

The last one they fought (the only one), Trevelyan ruined her wings with a blast of his own electricity, but he supposes this one will be resistant. Not a huge loss; Fire is his usual go-to. He's been teaching primal magic for almost twenty years, and specialised as a pyromancer for ten. The last dragon had barely flinched at his fire (rather a blow to his ego, frankly) but she had _breathed_ fire, so logic would dictate that fire would do far more damage to this one than lightening.

He calls to Vivienne “No lightening, ice only, go for the wings! Varric, wings! When she lands, start with the back left leg and work around till she can't put weight on any of her limbs. I'm going for her eyes.”

It figures he'd be good at this. Killing stuff. He has no touch with healing magic, no affiliation with the schools of entropy, spirit or creation. His magic first came to him as a fire, and the fire hasn't left him since. 

Maker, it feels _good_ when he blows that huge fireball from his hands. It smacks the Northern Hunter straight in the face. He'll feel guilty about it later: worry himself sick about his capacity for destruction, the thrill he feels as the flames burn hotter and huger and brighter about him. Later. For now the dragon is screeching electricity and plummeting to the ground. She smacks down, face first and skids, leaving a huge trench in her wake.   
Two massive spikes of ice mangle the joins at her wings, and one of Varric's mines blows the left one half off. He starts pin cushioning her back left leg with arrows, and Cassandra charges, sticking the dragon's heel with her sword as it scrabbles for purchase. It knocks Cassandra back two yards or so, but she gets up like she's only tripped (Trevelyan swears that woman's skull is made of diamond), and she sticks the back left leg again, digging the sword and twisting till the bone is visible. 

The dragon, meanwhile, is making a futile attempt to swipe away the ice Vivienne is shooting at its belly. It opens its mouth, and Trevelyan gets her with another well timed fire ball. The fire is hot enough to make the tender flesh of her mouth bubble, and while the dragon is stunned with the pain in its mouth (how hot that must have been to _burn_ a dragon) Trevelyan concentrates. It is foul magic, of his own recent design: a moderation of a combustion spell. He boils out the eyes and leaves only smoking holes in their wake. 

He's only used once or twice before. The first time Bull saw it, he didn't speak to Trevelyan properly for a week. Dorian was typically enthusiastic about it, at least, and brightly asked him how he'd managed something so delicate, as if they were talking about a nicely decorated cake or a good drawing. 

The dragon's eyes bubble and melt and then _explode_ (not so delicate on such a big animal, apparently) taking out half its skull. Its head sags, and before Trevelyan can bark any more orders, Vivienne's got a spike of ice flying into its brain, and Cassandra has a sword gouging roughly through its neck, like a blunt knife through a shank of beef. 

“Well,” says Varric. “I think we killed it.”

*

Trevelyan is still feeling the adrenaline rush, and the power when they get back to Caer Bronach. He orders half the soldiers working to abandon what they're doing and dissect, skin and de-bone the dragon. They will fetch the loot from its belly to the keep, take its hide to a tannery, its bones to the smith and collect as much of its blood as they can while they're there.

A great cheer breaks out as the news spreads. Cassandra complains of being a little sore, and the last thing Trevelyan does before running off to his quarters to wash and change is deposit her with the healer. She has, apparently, broken three ribs, a fact which makes her roll her eyes, and insist its just a little bruising. This is despite the fact her abdomen is black and blue and she winces when she breathes. 

The fuss has dissipated, for the most part and everyone is back to work. The buxom merchant Trevelyan had been watching earlier shoves a bottle of wine into his hands, with a wink and a “your worship”. Had he been at Skyhold, he'd have made a beeline for the tavern, spent the evening getting plastered and showing off. But, alas, this is not Skyhold, and Trevelyan fears this solitary bottle of wine may be the only alcohol they have, for the time being. He supposes he'll bring it to Cullen as a peace offering, later. For now, it's a change of clothes, and bath.

His room is atop a few flights of stairs, in what he theorises may have been someone-important's office. It's a bit pokey compared to Skyhold, but there's a fire place and a large bed and room enough for a bath. And the rugs that the scouts put down for him really are quite soft - he only hopes the drip bucket hasn't over flown and ruined them.

He opens his door to find the fire and a few candle sticks lit, the bath full, and Trevelyan's dumped his heavy coat on the floor before he spots Cullen: perched, waiting on the edge of his bed.

“You haven't been eaten, then. That's good,” he says, standing. “I'd have given you soldiers, you know, or—”

“Honestly, I think soldiers would have just gotten in our way, or chewed up or something,” Trevelyan mumbles. “Sorry I snapped earlier, by the way, I've been feeling a bit... Incompetent of late and... Well you did make me look like a bit of a nob.”

“I wanted to apologise as well, actually. You are in charge, and I was being insolent. Honestly, I think I was still a bit sore about you listening to Josephine with Kirkwall and... Forgive me, I was bloody chest beating, it was ridiculous,” Cullen shakes his head. Trevelyan accepts the apology and waggles the bottle of wine by the neck. 

Cullen's hands are shaking at his sides and at his sides, and the circles around his eyes are darker than usual. Trevelyan sets the wine down on the bed, and has Cullen unbuckle the straps of his chest plate – he is perfectly capable of loosening them himself, but if Cullen is here, he should make himself useful. 

“That tub is easily big enough for the both of us,” Trevelyan says lightly. Cullen noses his hair, and completely ignores him.

“You're soaked.”

“It's pissing it down.”

“You've not got any blood on you.”

“It's _pissing_ it down.”

Cullen chuckles. “Was it difficult, killing the dragon? The battlements were lined with people trying to get a look, but it's not quite clear enough to get a view.”

The chest plate is dropped on the floor with the coat, and Cullen starts on Trevelyan's shirt without having to be asked. His fingers tremble, and the wet fabric and stiff buttons make for slow work.

“Er, it was all over rather quickly, I suppose. Considering how long it took to kill the other one. This one was quite young, though, apparently. And didn't seem quite as resistant to fire, so... Well, I don't want to take credit, but I did... Blow up its head. By accident, but still.”

“How do you accidentally _blow up_ a dragon's head?”

“A miscalculation. I was trying to boil out its eyes.”

Cullen looks him dead in the eye and twists his face with disgust. “You know, there are mages who actually wonder why people are frightened of them.”

Trevelyan sighs heavily. “It should be noted, I am a particularly dangerous mage.” Cullen fumbles, and crinkles his brow, as if he knows he's touched a nerve, but has exhausted his day's capacity for apologies. He rubs his thumb across Trevelyan's cheek, then return to the shirt.

Whether that means “I don't think you're dangerous”, “You are dangerous, but I'm not scared of you” or, “You are dangerous, I am scared of you, but I know that'll hurt your feelings, so I'm just not going to say anything”, Trevelyan doesn't know. He doesn't want to know, frankly. He doesn't want to think about dragons, or magic for the moment, and he tells Cullen as much, and asks how building is going.

“We prioritised repairing the dam controls, so that's well under way. The carpenters estimate it'll be sorted the day after next, perhaps late tomorrow. Erm, the smiths _did_ manage to get started forging nails and so on, so there's a reasonable supply, and the stone mason wants to wait till the weather clears up, before he starts repairs.”

“He'll be waiting a long bloody time then, it's rained every day, for two weeks.”

“Surely not,” Cullen says. Trevelyan's shirt is open, on the floor and he sits on the bed to start his own boots, because Maker knows what his feet smell like. 

Cullen starts to remove his own armour, just the light plate he has for Skyhold - the mantle has been ditched, however, and is presumably drying by a fire, somewhere.

“Day and night. I think it's something to do with the rift in the lake and the undead. You know when you can just _tell_ there's something unnatural afoot.”

“Not at all. That lyrium I was shoving down my throat for going on twenty years was just for a laugh, really.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Commander,” Trevelyan tuts, and tosses his boots and his socks to the furthest corner of the room. His trousers are off and he hops in the bath without caring to warm it up first. It's not _cold_ , not cold enough to warrant exclamation, any way. He lets his magic slowly warm the water around him, sighing as the bath begins to steam, heat soaking through his aching flesh and bone; he sinks down till just his head from his nostrils up are out of the water. He watches Cullen place the last bit of his armour gently on the floor. He's left in an old wool jerkin and stiff leather trousers, and even the jerkin is peeled off to reveal a thin cotton shirt. 

Cullen's trousers squeak as he edges over to the bath, trip-toeing his boots off as he goes. He kneels by the tub and tentatively dips his fingers into the water. 

“How would I fit?” he asks. Trevelyan wipes the smirk of his face before he slides his mouth up out of the water.

“You could sit with your knees tucked up at one end of the bath, or you sit between my legs. Or I could move up for you to get in behind me, and I sit between yours.”

Cullen thinks about it for a moment. 

“The last one, then.”

So there's a flurry of movement. Trevelyan makes room for Cullen to get in, while Cullen speedily disrobes. To his credit, he thinks to grab the bottle of wine and places it within grabbing distance of the bath before stepping in, hissing a little at the water.

“It's a bit hot,” he complains. 

“You'll get used to it.”

“I'll go all red.”

Trevelyan glances over his shoulder when Cullen is sat down, and pushes between his loosely open knees. Trevelyan props his head upon Cullen's still-dry shoulder and sighs, contented, when Cullen's arm slides under his. Cullen's rough hand comes to rest on the soft skin of his belly. 

“You've lost weight,” he sighs, pinching Trevelyan's scant fat between his thumb and his forefinger. 

“Don't nip!” Cullen is such a _nipper_. He nips arses when he's had too much to drink and arms when he wants your attention. Cullen responds to this with harder pinch, and snorts when Trevelyan whines and listlessly bangs his head against Cullen's shoulder. 

“You missed dinner. Aren't you hungry?” Cullen asks. Trevelyan shakes his head. Now the adrenaline's gone, the shock of it all, he feels nauseous. Nauseous the way he does when he's over extended his magic, and nauseous the way he does when he's been around death all day. He looks at his thin brown hand upon Cullen's thick white knee. It would take so little effort for him to burn through that knee; for him to burn the room down around them. He shivers, clenches his hand into a fist, as if that will keep his magic back.

When he was a boy – that is, when he not yet come to terms with his magic or with the idea of being a Mage – he couldn't control his magic, and the only magic he had was fire. When he became too anxious, or upset it would seem to just _pour_ from him. The Templars would come running, with their swords and their silences prepared, far too rough on a little boy. They'd drain all his magic and pop him in a cell to calm down but all he'd ever do was scream until he fell asleep. Then the nightmares would come, visions of demons, he could never be sure were real or just dreams. He did not dare to say anything about them, lest the Templars put him to the sword, and the nightmares came for decades (still come). 

His parents spent his first year in the tower pretending he did not exist, they would not let his sisters write or visit, and as far as Trevelyan knew, he was to spend the rest of his life alone, in a cell, unloved, unfree and unsafe. 

He was barely nine when the enchanters began discussing tranquillity with him, and Trevelyan thinks, had it not been for his parents choosing that moment to resume their relationship (under the urgency of the Circle's revered mother) he'd have been made Tranquil within the year. A special case, of course, but in their position, he'd have done the same thing.

He became a stupendously happy child when his parents began to visit. He got a letter every single day, and after just a few weeks, the tantrums stopped and the fire stilled. Only when he was much older did Trevelyan find resentment for his parents during that first year. Love starved children have such a great capacity for forgiveness, don't they? Trevelyan sees it again, and again in every new apprentice. These poor, innocent souls - who do not yet understand why the world hates them so - ready to love, without fear or condition, to offer their trust and their hearts to people who do not deserve affection given so purely and freely. In the holding of a Templar's hand, or a poorly spelt letter begging a visit from mother, they throw away pieces of themselves and never see them returned. Mages grow up clingy, grow up in each other's laps, grow up loving intensely and never telling, till the cruelty of it all finally chips away at the last of their trust and they're left thwarted by it all. 

Then it's blood magic, suicides, voluntary tranquillity; it always hits them just before the harrowing.

Trevelyan has loved the Circle, and made a good life for himself there, but he has been lucky. He has passed by so many tragedies on the long walk through his life, he's found it painful to look any where but the narrow path in front of him. 

He is no longer a frightened child, some creature of raw emotion holding its tiny heart on a platter, though there are some days when it is hard to see himself as anything but. He's dangerous. And he hates being dangerous, but there it is. Death is always at the tips of his fingers: even as he tries to relax his hand against Cullen's leg, it feels more like he's loosing an arrow from a bow string rather than simply unballing a fist.

Maker, how he wishes the tower hadn't fallen; how he wishes he was still under watch and ward and lock and key.

Cullen kisses the back of his neck, and unwinds his hair from its braid. 

“Have you ever worn your it short?” he asks. As if he can read Trevelyan's thoughts, and knows it is time for a change of subject. 

“Not really, no,” Trevelyan replies. Though perhaps it is time for a proper hair cut. He's starting to go grey. Give it a few years and he'll look like a storybook picture of a wizard.

“I had a head full of yellowest ringlets you'd ever seen as a little boy, and my father cut them off when I was seven or eight, because he was sick of people telling him how pretty his daughter's hair was,” Cullen chuckles, then, “My mother had been at the market that day, and she _wept_ when she saw me. Then she wouldn't let Father throw the hair out. She scooped some of it off the floor, tied it up with a ribbon and put it in her box of keepsakes, wailing all the while. To this day, she maintains it is the worst thing my father has ever done to her.” Cullen laughs into Trevelyan's hair. “My parents both have straight hair, you see, and she used to spend _hours_ picking the ringlets apart and pulling them straight just to watch them bounce back again. She tried to make me grow it out again, but by then I was much too busy playing Templars and I found that my helmet fit on my head far better when my hair was short... Well. I say helmet. It was an upturned bucket.”

Then Trevelyan laughs as well. “I'd pictured you as quite a stern little thing.”

“No. Quite a jolly chap, actually. Until I was a teenager, of course. _Sullen Cullen_ , they called me at the monastery. What were you like? When you were younger?” asks Cullen. He begins to pull the knots from Trevelyan's hair with his fingers, as gently as he can.

“Ah... Bit of a terror when I first got to the circle. Lots of tantrums and _fire_ ,” says Trevelyan. “I was... I don't know, I think I was alright as a teenager. You know that...Awkward, ugly stage lots of children go through?”

“All too well,” says Cullen, wistfully.

“Well I never had one of those, so it was quite a lot of fun, really. Lots of kissing lots of people. I was awfully pleased with myself, of course, but that'll be no surprise to you.”

“It hardly seems fair that you've always been good looking. There must be some sort of trade off... Perhaps you'll age horribly.”

“I don't seem to be. Would you put me at thirty nine?”

“Never,” says Cullen. “Forty five, however.”

The slap to Cullen's thigh is deeply ineffective under all of that water, and all he does is laugh. Trevelyan glares over his shoulder.

“I refuse to accept this insolence from a subordinate. Say something like that again, and I'll... I don't know... Dock your pay? Does someone pay you?” Trevelyan's non-threat trails away when he catches Cullen's eye. He has this lazy smile on his mouth, his eyes warm and heavy. And if Trevelyan is thinking wishfully (which he almost always is) he can see an unabashed affection there, which might disappear now its been spotted.

But it doesn't. And then Cullen's mouth is on his, and Trevelyan knows by the flutter of his stomach and the twist in his chest that he is edging into dangerous territory. Territory well charted by now, always unnamed and ever treacherous, Trevelyan cannot bring himself to care as he twists himself bodily, slopping water on the rugs and almost kneeing Cullen in the balls. 

His hands slide wetly up Trevelyan's back, and Trevelyan slips, pulls Cullen beneath the water with him, and they emerge hopeless tangled and gasping for breath. 

“Might be an idea to get out of the bath,” says Trevelyan. Cullen nods. Exiting the tub is done with neither grace nor speed but it is managed. Trevelyan takes a moment to wring out his hair, aware of Cullen moving about behind him. Stoking the fire, he thinks. Cullen complains then (in that tone of voice he uses when he talks to himself) he says they're going to catch their death, walking around without clothes on, apparently not having noticed how stuffy the room has gotten.

Trevelyan loosely pins up his hair and gathers up the throw at the end of the bed. Cullen is still poking at the fire when Trevelyan drapes the throw around his shoulders. Trevelyan kisses Cullen's hair, the smell of the wax he uses lingers: it's honey-ish, pleasant, if a little too sweet for Trevelyan's particular tastes. Though he supposes he has no right to complain – an old lover had once told him he was followed around almost permanently by the smell of _burning hair_.

Cullen turns to meet his lips, pulling him close and wrapping them both in the throw. 

“I'm a bit warm, actually” mumbles Trevelyan, against Cullen's mouth.

“Can't have you catching a cold.” 

Cullen backs Trevelyan to the wall by the fire, where the stone is warm and surprisingly dry, and presses their bellies together. Trevelyan can feel the muscles shifting beneath Cullen's skin, the way his flesh jumps when Trevelyan unexpectedly bites his bottom lip. Trevelyan takes his hands either side of Cullen's face and tries to urge him southward. Cullen lingers at Trevelyan's neck , his lips soft and wet, his stubble scratchy, Trevelyan cranes to give him more access, before growing impatient and pushing Cullen's head again (not ungently). Cullen bites, but he does begin to move, leaving a trail of soft kisses as he goes from collarbone to chest to ribs, before he settles on his knees and rubs his nose against Trevelyan's belly.

The throw is obscuring the view so Trevelyan drops it to the floor, and Cullen frowns. He closes his eyes then (Trevelyan knows not to take it personally) and seems to take a moment to steel himself, before reaching for Trevelyan's cock and working it gently in his palm. Trevelyan sighs and leans back, feeling his shoulder blades scrape on the stone, a little. 

Cullen's breath shakes against the head of his cock before he feels the tongue, the heat of Cullen's mouth, the soft, wetness of it. Trevelyan threads a hand into Cullen's damp hair and gently scratches at his scalp. Eyes still closed, his brow crinkles and he groans, softly in the back of his throat. Trevelyan feels it, twitches his hips, and Cullen starts to suck as best he can. He's no expert at this – until a few months ago, Cullen had only received and then just once or twice – but the way he so clearly _enjoys_ sucking cock and enjoys it despite himself sends this slightly perverse jolt through Trevelyan. 

Perhaps perverse is the wrong word but there's something thrilling about feeling like a corrupting influence. It's hard to believe he's gotten a man like Cullen onto his knees; that Trevelyan is able to get him so pliant and needy. Trevelyan catches himself panting, and Cullen's hands come up to rest on his arse, breath coming frantic and shaking through his nose.

The odd few times Trevelyan has come in Cullen's mouth, he's choked, despite warnings and valiant attempts at swallowing. Trevelyan supposes - tightening his grip on the locks of Cullen's hair that are long enough to fit between his fingers - that practise makes perfect. He watches Cullen's cheeks hollow and fill again, watches his eyelashes flutter and his jaw churn slowly back and forth with the steady movement of his mouth. It's the wriggling that really gets him, though. The way he can feel Cullen's whole body move as his hips roll and his stomach quivers; he fights to keep himself sat still and focussed on the task at hand. Trevelyan feels another surge of affection, and rubs his free hand vaguely over Cullen's head and the side of his face.

“Close,” Trevelyan mumbles, “Might want to pull off.” Cullen kneads the flesh of Trevelyan's backside by way of an answer, palms sliding up and thumbs hooking over his hipbones to pin him in place. Cullen's lips edge determinedly down Trevelyan's shaft, despite the splutter bubbling. Trevelyan coos softly, and can't quite stop his head from lolling back and his mouth dropping open. Cooing lets slip into a too-loud moan of Cullen's name, and Trevelyan is no longer sure quite how tightly he is holding Cullen's hair. 

Of their own volition, his hips attempt to jerk forward, but Cullen holds him tightly in place. A simple demonstration of his strength, but it pushes Trevelyan over the edge. He finishes, and Cullen doesn't pull away till he's totally done, though he does hear something between a cough and a gag as the last of it goes down. 

Cullen releases Trevelyan's hips then immediately begins to cough, wiping his mouth sloppily on the back of his wrist as he does. Cullen catches his breath and Trevelyan does the same, dropping inelegantly onto the floor. Cullen sits back on his arse, cock hard and bobbing heavily, and when the coughing has settled, Trevelyan hooks his foot beneath Cullen's knee and pulls, awkwardly. Cullen gets the message and scrambles to close the space between them. His knees are stippled red with weave of the carpet, and obviously aching, so he ends up sort of side on, with his legs thrown across Trevelyan's lap. 

“Do you want to move to the bed?” Trevelyan asks. Cullen's hand finds his and guides it to his cock.

“This first,” he says. 

It takes very little to finish Cullen off. He comes, after a few strokes, into Trevelyan's hand and onto his own stomach, fingers balled into fists and face twisted with silent pleasure. Trevelyan watches Cullen decompress with a fond smile, his breathing slowing and his unwinding into a neutral expression. While Cullen's eyes are still closed, Trevelyan wipes his hand surreptitiously on the rug beneath them. Cullen shivers when Trevelyan (lightly) smacks his thigh.

“Get off me,” he says, “Before my legs go dead.” Cullen frowns, he yawns and clicks his jaw first, but he swings his legs around, sagging forward into his own lap. He stretches his feet straight, like a dancer, then wriggles his toes. 

They clean up, thankful for lukewarm water and clean wash cloths. Cullen is half asleep on top of the bed and Trevelyan setting their clothes up to dry when there is a knock at the door – Leliana’s.

Cullen sits bolt upright, scrambling to cover himself with the throw. Trevelyan gives and irritated sigh and picks up his trousers from the floor, begrudgingly pulling them on. He goes to shout hello, but Cullen jumps in first.

“Leliana?” he asks.

“Cullen?” comes the muffled reply. “I was told these were the Inquisitor's quarters. May I come in?” 

Trevelyan can see Cullen pinching the bridge of his nose out the corner of his eye. He snorts to himself – Cullen is the one with all the issues about _privacy_ so Cullen can wriggle out of this one himself. Trevelyan continues to dress, twisting his face as he pulls on his still damp boots. He could dry them with magic, but as tired as he is, he'll only ruin the leather. 

“I'm not decent. And the Inquisitor and I... swapped rooms,” says Cullen. “There's a draught in here and you know what he's like about cold.”

“Of course,” a laugh on her voice, “You'll need to dress and take me to him, I've urgent news from Kirkwall. The situation has escalated, and we've information about his sister,” she says. Cullen shoots Trevelyan a pleading look, which Trevelyan barely registers. He barrels over to the door, shivering as the cold air hits his bare chest and arms.

“What is it, what's the matter?”

“Your sister is safe, but as I said, there has been an escalation.”

A soaked, exhausted looking Leliana stands before him, clutching a leather satchel and flanked by a pair of agents. She does still, however, have the energy to raise her eyebrows at Trevelyan, smirk at Cullen and suggest they both get dressed. Trevelyan requests a minute and shuts the door in her face.

Cullen pouts while Trevelyan hastily buttons his shirt.

“Oh stop it, she probably knew, anyway. She knows everything,” Trevelyan mutters. Cullen’s face does soften, at least, but he’s still clearly unhappy. He values his privacy – considerably more than Trevelyan does, anyway. Neither of them have any particular desire to be the talk of Skyhold, but Trevelyan doesn’t _squirm_ at the very idea like Cullen does. “Get dressed – we'll meet you in the kitchens.”

Cullen scratches the back of his neck and nods, and Trevelyan flings on his coat and steps outside to find Leliana hushing and dismissing her agents.

“Inquisitor,” she says. She's all professional now, thrusting two thick (and slightly damp) wads of paper into Trevelyan's hands.

“It’s not something to do with his blighted invasion, is it?” 

It is, of course, everything to do with his Blighted Invasion. 

Sebastian, apparently, had begun to offer amnesty in Kirkwall to uncorrupted Templars (without alerting the Inquisition) on the condition that they aid him in his fight to conquer Kirkwall. Rosaline arrived unharmed (apparently) from Ferelden a few weeks ago, ill from withdrawal, and unable to afford passage back to Ostwick. 

“The letter wasn’t particularly clear on the circumstances that had lead to her to Kirkwall rather than the Inquisition, but the Prince has personally written to inform you that she has joined the ranks of his Templars. A gesture of good faith, apparently. He says, toward the end of the letter, that if you were to send men to assist us, your sister could go free,” Leliana says. She is frowning now, Trevelyan is scowling. 

“And if I don’t?” 

“The papers in your left hand, third page, fifth paragraph, I've ringed it for you.” 

It take a while to find the ringed passage, but he does. It is a miracle the letter doesn't burst into flames in his hands.

_Of course, if the Inquisition chooses not to send assistance for my forces, we shall be forced to keep every man we have. Kirkwall is a warzone, dangerous and filled with stink of magical corruption. Harm could come to Knight Captain Rosaline easily, if aid is not given soon._

“Has he gone mad? Because this is basically a polite kidnapping, isn't it?” Trevelyan flaps the letters at Leliana and she takes them from him and replaces them back in the satchel. “I can't bloody believe this! My family knew the Vaels quite well, you know? The absolute _cheek_ of it is...” Trevelyan growls. 

The Vaels had an _excellent_ relationship with house Trevelyan before their murder. Sebastian and Trevelyan himself had never gotten along particularly well, but their fathers had been old friends. In fact, if Trevelyan remembers correctly, he was briefly _betrothed_ to some lesser cousin of the Prince, before his magic had shown, of course, when his parents weren't quite sure what to do with a third child. He'd been a surprise baby – Evelyn was already heir and promised to the Teryn's nephew, Rosaline was already promised to the chantry, and the main line of House Trevelyan does not appear to plan for more than two children.

“Did _she_ send a letter?”

Leliana shakes her head. “If she did, it has not arrived.”

“Shit,” Trevelyan suddenly wishes he'd just gone to bed instead of pissing about with Cullen. He wishes someone had turned Leliana away at the gate. _We're sorry, but the Inquisitor has already killed a dragon today, and he can't be bothered with this as well._ “Let's use the kitchen for this meeting, because it's dry down there and someone can at least make tea...” He trails off and realises he is facing a massive diplomatic situation with no diplomat in sight. “What about Josephine, does she know? Is she here?”

Trevelyan looks down the Corridor of the keep, as if she might appear. Leliana lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“Don't worry, your Worship. She insisted it would infeasible to ride up as well, but I told her she was too vital. Depending on what you decide, we may need her to travel straight on to Kirkwall. She went to get Varric, actually.” Leliana is not quite so composed as usual, and her voice as an uncharacteristic rambling quality. Though Josephine's presence is a great comfort, and fo about half a second Trevelyan feels calm. Then he's smacked with another wave of panic.

“But who's at Skyhold?” he asks, foolishly, perhaps. As if they might have forgotten to turn off the stoves or lock the doors behind them.

Leliana's hand tightens. “Our deputies will do a fine job for the next few days, Inquisitor. We met Alistair and Hawke before we left, and they're all busy arranging passage to the Western Approach.”

Trevelyan nods and takes a deep breath. He had been _so relaxed_ just moments ago, he almost felt nostalgic for it. “This is really bad, isn't it?” he says. “This feels like Starkhaven is angling for a declaration of _war_. We don't need this, Leliana. It's not like I'm sat around on my arse out here, we've got dead rising and a dam to fix and now there's the Wardens and rumblings about the Empress... Do you have a plan? I wouldn't have minded if you'd just... Sorted something out without me, you know. I trust you and Josephine more than I trust myself with this.”

Leliana lets go of his shoulder (finally) and pushes her wet hood down. She combs a gloved hand through her hair and sighs heavily, as if struggling to find the words. It's a two day ride to Crestwood from Skyhold, and she doesn't look like she's stopped.

“Josephine and I discussed coming here at length, and felt that... due to this situation's potential to escalate and your own personal stake in the matter, we simply could not act in good conscience without first consulting you. And the Commander, of course, given the military action we shall likely have to take,” Leliana tells him wearily. It is... Fair, he supposes. He nods.

“I’ll go and grab Cullen, then,” he turns toward the door, then turns back with an: _ah, while we're on the subject_ loaded, but Leliana shushes him before the words are out of his mouth.

“You needn't warn me of discretion, your worship,” she says. “I shan't breathe a word.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading feel free to comment etc!!!! 
> 
> oh also I've a tumblr side-blog thing under apostategarbage if u wanna talk about dragons :V

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks in advance for any comments, kudos, bookmarks etc!!


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